YOV wofull wights giue eare a while,

And marke the tenor of my stile,

Which shall such trembling hearts vnfold

As seldome hath to fore bene told.

Such chances rare and dolefull newes

As may attempt your wits to muse.

And cause such trickling teares to passe,

Except your hearts be flint or brasse:

To heare the newes which I shall tell,

That inCastellaonce befell.

Boy.

My Lord.

Sirrah go vp to Signior Angelio,

And pray him (if he can) deuise some meanes,

To leaue my father, and come speake with me.

I will my Lord.

Well heauen, be auspicious in the euent;

For I do this against my Genius,

And yet my thoughts cannot propose a reason.

Why I should feare, or faint thus in my hopes,

Of one so much endeered to my loue.

Some sparke it is, kindled within the soule:

Whose light yet breaks not to the outward sence,

That propagates this tymerous suspect;

His actions neuer carried any face

Of change, or weaknes. then I iniury him?

In being thus cold conceited of his faith,

O here he comes.

How now sweet Lord, whats the matter?

Good faith his presence makes me halfe ashamd.

Of my straid thoughts.

Bestow your selfe.

Where is my father, Signior Angelio.

Marry in the galery, where your Lordship left him.

Thats well. Then Angelio I will be briefe.

Since time forbids the vse of circumstance,

How well you are receiued in my affection,

Let it appeare by this one instance, onely

That now I will deliuer to your trust,

The deerest secrets, treasurd in my bosome,

Deare Angelio. You are not euery man,

But one, whome my election hath design'd,

As the true proper obiect of my soule:

I vrge not this t'insinuate my desert,

Or supple your tri'd temper, with soft phrases;

True frendship lothes such oyly complement:

But from th'aboundance of that loue, that flowes

Through all my spirits, is my speech enforc'd.

Before your Lordship do proceed too far,

Let me be bould to intimate thus much;

That what so ere your wisedome hath t'expose,

Be it the waightiest and most rich affaire,

That euer was included in your breast,

My faith shall poise it, if not——

O no more,

Those words haue rapt me with their sweet effects,

So freely breath'd, and so responsible,

To that which I endeuoured to extract,

Arguing a happy mixture of our soules.

Why were there no such sympathy sweete Lord?

Yet the impressure of those ample fauours,

I haue deriu'd from your vnmatched spirit,

Would bind my faith to all obseruances.

How! fauours Angello, ô speake not of them,

They are meere paintings, and import no merit,

Lookes my loue well? thereon my hopes are plac't:

Faith, that is bought with fauours, cannot last.

My Lord.

How now?

You are sought for all about the house, within,

The Count your father cals for you.

God, what crosse euents do meet my purposes?

Now will he violently fret and grieue

That I am absent. Boy, say I come presently:

Sweet Angello, I cannot now insist

Vpon particulars, I must serue the time

The maine of all this is, I am in loue.

Why starts your Lordship?

No?

No, I assure your Lordship.

I would worke safely.

Why, has he no knowledge of it then?

O no, no creature yet pertakes it but your selfe

In a third person, and beleeue me friend,

The world containes not now another spirit,

To whom I would reueile it. Harke, harke,

A pox vpon those brazen throated slaues,

What are they mad, trow?

Alas, blame not them,

Their seruices are (clock-like) to be set,

Backward and forward, at their Lords command,

You know my father's wayward, and his humour

Must not receiue a check, for then all obiects,

Feede both his griefe and his impatience,

And those affections in him, are like powder,

Apt to enflame with euery little sparke,

And blow vp reason, therefore Angelo, peace.

Why this is rare, is he not in the garden?

I know not my Lord.

See, call him?

He is comming this way, let's withdraw a little.

Signior Paulo, Lord Ferneze, Lord Paulo.

No my Lord.

No, why there? ô who would keepe such drones?

How now, ha ye found him?

No my Lord.

No my Lord, I shall haue shortly all my family

Speake nought, but no my Lord, where is Christophero,

Looke how he stands, you sleepy knaue,

What is he not in the Garden?

No my good Lord.

Your good Lord, ô how this smels of fennell.

You haue bene in the garden it appeares, well, well.

We eannot find him my Lord.

He is not in the armory.

He is not, he is no where, is he?

Count Ferneze.

Signior.

Preserue your patience honorable Count.

Patience? a Saint would loose his patience to be crost,

As I am with a sort of motly braines,

See see, how like a nest of Rookes they stand,

Gaping on one another! now Diligence, what news bring you?

Let me intreat you, you would not regard

Any contempt flowing from such a spirit,

So rude, so barbarous.

Most noble Count vnder your fauour—

Why Ile tell you Signior,

Heele bandy with me word for word, nay more,

Put me to silence, strike me perfect dumb;

And so amaze me, that oftentimes I know not,

Whether to check or cherish his presumption:

Therefore good Signior.

I for then it rests, O Sir your welcome,

Why God be thanked you are found at last:

Signior Coloma truly you are welcome,

I am glad to see you sir so well returned.

I gladly thanke your honour, yet indeed

I am sory for such cause of heauinesse,

As hath possest your Lordship in my absence.

O Francisco' you knew her what she was!

She was a wise and honorable Lady.

I was she not! well weepe not she is gone,

Passons duld eye can make two grieues of one,

Whom death marke out, vertue, nor bluod can saue,

Princes, as beggers, all must feed the graue.

Are your horse ready Lord Paulo,

I signior the stay for vs at the gate.

I, but Maddame,

Thus to disclaime in all the effects of pleasure,

May make your sadnesse seeme to much affected,

And then the proper grace of it is lost.

Indeed sir, if I did put on this sadnesse

Onely abroad, and in Society,

And were in priuate merry; and quick humor'd;

Then might it seeme affected and abhord:

But as my lookes appeare, such is my spirit,

Drown'd vp with confluence of griefe, and melancholy,

That like to riuers run through all my vaines,

Quenching the pride and feruour of my bloud.

My honorable Lord? no more:

There is the honour of my bloud ingag'd,

For your sonnes safety.

Signior, blame me not,

For tending his security so much,

He is mine onely sonne, and that word onely,

Hath with his strong, and reprecussiue sound,

Stroke my heart cold, and giuen it a deepe wound.

Let my Sword faile me then.

I had one other yonger borne then this,

By twise so many howers as would fill

The circle of a yeare, his name Camillo,

Whome in that blacke, and fearfull night I lost,

(Tis now a nineteene yeares agone at least,

And yet the memory of it sits as fresh

Within my braine as twere but yesterday)

It was that night where in the great Chamont,

The generall for France surprised Vicenza,

Me thinks the horrour of that clamorous shout

His souldiers gaue when they attaind the wall,

Yet tingles in mine eare, me thinkes I see

With what amazed lookes, distracted thoughts,

And minds confus'd, we, that were citizens,

Confronted one another: euery street

Was fild with bitter selfe tormenting cries,

And happy was that foote, that first could presse,

The flowry champaigne, bordering on Verona.

Heere I (imploy'd about my deare wiues safety)

Whose soule is now in peace) lost my Camillo.

Who sure was murdered by the barbarous Souldiers,

Or else I should haue heard——my heart is great.

Sorrow is faint? and passion makes me sweat.

How shall we rid him hence.

Why well inough? sweet Signior Maximilian,

I haue some small occasion to stay:

If it may please you but take horse afore

Ile ouer take you, ere your troopes be rang'd.

Your motion hath tast wel: Lord Ferneze I go.

Now if my loue faire Rachel, were so happy,

But to looke forth. See fortune doth me grace.

Before I can demaund? how now loue.

Where is your father?

Gone abroad my Lord:

Thats well.

I but I feare heele presently returne,

Are you now going my most honored Lord?

I my sweet Rachel.

Before God, she is a sweet wench.

Rachel I hope I shall not need to vrge,

The sacred purity of our effects,

As if it hung in triall or suspence:

Since in our hearts, and by our mutuall vowes,

It is confirmd and seald in sight of heauen,

Nay doe not weepe, why starte you? feare not, Loue.

Your father cannot be return'd so soone,

I prithee doe not looke so heauily,

Thou shalt want nothing.

No is your presence nothing?

I shall want that, and wanting that, want all:

For that is all to me.

Content thee sweet,

I haue Made choise here of a constant friend

This gentleman? one, whose zealous loue

I doe repose more, then on all the world,

Thy beauteous selfe excepted: and to him,

Haue I committed my deere care of thee,

As to my genius, or my other soule,

Receiue him gentle loue, and what deffects

My absence proues, his presence shall supply.

The time is enuious of our longer stay.

Farewell deere Rachel.

Most deere Lord, adew,

Heauen and honour crowne your deeds, and you.

Faith tell me Angelio how dost thou like her?

Troth well my Lord; but shall I speake my mind.

I prithee doe.

She is deriud too meanely to be wife

To such a noble person, in my iudgement.

Nay then thy iudgement is to meene, I se[unclear]

Didst thou neare read in difference of good,

Tis more to shine in vertue then in bloud.

Come you are so sententious my Lord.

Here comes her father. How dost thou good Iaques?

God saue thee Iaques.

What should this meane? Rachel open the dore.

Sbloud how the poore slaue lookes, as though

He had bene hauuted by the spirit Lar,

Or seene the ghost of some great Satrapas[unclear].

In an vnsauory sheet.

I muse he spake not, belike he was amazd

SO now inough my heart, beat now no more;

At least for this afright, what a could sweat

Flow'd on my browes, and ouer all my bosome!

Had I not reason? to behold my dore

Beset with vnthrifts, and my selfe abroad?

Why Iaques? was their nothing in the house

Worth a continuall eye, a vigelent thought,

Whose head should neuer nod, nor eyes once wincke?

Looke on my coate, my thoughts; worne quite thred bare,

That time could neuer couer with a nappe,

And by it learne, neuer with nappes of sleepe,

To smother your conceipts of that you keepe.

But yet, I maruell, why these gallant youths

Spoke me so faire, and I esteemd a beggar?

The end of flattery, is gaine, or lechery:

If they seeke gaine of me, they thinke me rich,

But that they do not: for their other obiect:

T'is in my handsome daughter, if it be.

And by your leaue, her handsomnesse may tell them

My beggery counterfeits, and, that her neatnesse,

Flowes from some store of wealth, that breakes my coffers,

With this same engine, loue to mine owne breed.

But this is answered: Beggers will keepe fine,

Their daughters, being faire, though themselues pine.

Well then, it is for her, I, t'is sure for her,

And I make her so briske for some of them,

That I might liue alone once with my gold.

O t'is a sweet companion! kind and true,

A man may trust it when his father cheats him;

Brother, or friend, or wife, ô wondrous pelfe,

”That which makes all men false, is true it selfe.

But now this maid, is but suppos'd my daughter:

For I being Steward to a Lord of France,

Of great estate, and wealth, called Lord Chammount,

He gone into the warres, I stole his treasure;

(But heare not, any thing) I stole his treasure,

And this his daughter, being but two yeares old,

Because it lou'd me so, that it would leaue

The nurse her selfe, to come into mine armes,

And had I left it, it would sure haue dyed.

Now herein I was kinde, and had a conscience;

And since her Lady mother that did dye

In child-bed of her, loued me passing well,

It may be nature fashiond this affection,

Both in the child and her: but hees ill bred,

That ransackes tombes, and doth deface the dead.

I'le therefore say no more: suppose the rest,

Here haue I chang'd my forme, my name and hers.

And liue obsurely, to enioy more safe

My deerest treasure. But I must abroad, Rachel.

VVhat is your pleasure sir?

Rachel I must abroad.

Lock thy selfe in, but yet take out the key,

That whosoeuer peepes in at the key-hole,

May yet imagine there is none at home.

I will sir.

But harke thee Rachel: say a theefe should come,

And misse the key, he would resoule indeede

None were at home, and so breake in the rather:

Ope the doore Rachel, set it open daughter;

But sit in it thy selfe: and talke alowd,

As if there were some more in house with thee:

Put out the fire, kill the chimnies hart,

That it may breath no more then a dead man,

The more we spare my child, the more we gaine.

Command thou wouldest say, no good Iuniper.

Health and wealth sir.

This wench will solicite for my selfe,

Making my Lord and maister priuy to it;

And if he second me with his consent,

I will proceede, as hauing long ere this,

Thought her a worthy choyce to make my wife.

Roome for a case of matrons coloured blacke,

How motherly my mothers death hath made vs?

I would I had some girles now to bring vp;

O I could make a wench so vertuous,

She should say grace to euery bit of meate,

And gape no wider then a wafers thicknesse:

And she should make French cursies, so most low,

That euery touch should turne her ouer backward.

Sister, these words become not your attire,

Nor your estate: our vertuous mothers death

Should print more deepe effects of sorrow in vs,

Then may be worne out in so little time.

Sister, faith you take too much Tobacco,

It makes you blacke within, as y'are without.

What true-stich sister? both your sides alike?

Be of a sleighter worke: for of my word,

You shall be sold as deere or rather deerer?

Will you be bound to customes and to rites?

Shed profitable teares, weepe for aduantage;

Or else, do all things, as you are enclynd.

Hate when your stomacke serues (faith the Physitian)

Not at eleuen and sixe. So if your humour

Be now affected with this heauinesse.

Giue me the reines and spare not, as I do,

In this my pleasurable appetite,

It is Præcisianisme to alter that

With austere iudgement, that is giuen by nature.

I wept you saw too, when my mother dyed:

For then I found it easier to do so,

And fitter with my moode, then not to weepe.

But now tis otherwise, another time

Perhaps I shall haue such deepe thoughts of her,

That I shall weepe a fresh, some tweluemonth hence,

And I will weepe, if I be so dispos'd,

And put on blacke, as grimly then, as now;

Let the minde go still with the bodies stature,

Iudgement is fit for Iudges, giue me nature.

See Signior Angelo here are the Ladies,

Go you and comfort one, Ile to the other.

Therefore I come sir, I'le to the eldest.

God saue you Ladies, these sad moodes of yours,

That make you choose these solitary walkes,

Are hurtfull for your beauties.

If we had them.

Come, that condition might be for your hearts,

When you protest faith, since we cannot see them.

But this same heart of beauty, your sweet face

Is in mine eye still.

O you cut my heart

with your sharpe eye.

Nay Lady thats not so, your heart's to hard.

My beauties hart?

O no.

I meane that regent of affection, Maddam,

That tramples on al loue with such contempt

in this faire breast.

No more, your drift is sauour'd,

I had rather seeme hard hearted

Then hard fauour 'd,

Is that your meaning, Lady?

Go too sir.

Your wits are fresh I know, they need no spur.

And therefore you wil ride them.

Say I doe.

They will not tire I hope?

No not with you, hark you sweet Lady.

Tis much pitty Maddam.

You should haue any reason to retaine

This signe of griefe, much lesse the thing disignde.

Griefes are more fit for Ladies then their pleasures.

That is for such as follow nought but pleasures.

But you that temper them so wel with vertues,

Vsing your griefes so it would prooue them pleasures.

And you would seeme in cause of griefes & pleasures equally

pleasant.

Sir so I do now.

It is the excesse of either that I striue

So much to shun in all my proou'd endeauours,

Although perhaps vnto a generall eye,

I may appeare most wedded to my griefes,

Yet doth my mind forsake no tast of pleasure,

I meane that happy pleasure of the soule,

Deuine and sacred contemplation

Of that eternall, and most glorious blisse.

Proposed as the crowne vnto our soules.

I will be silent, yet that I may serue

But as a Decade in the art of memory

To put you stil in mind of your owne vertues

When your too serious thoughts make you too sad)

Accept me for your seruant honored Lady.

Those cerimonies are too comon signior Francis,

For your vncommon grauitie, and iudgement.

And fits them onely, that are nought but cerimony.

Come, I will not sue, stally to be your seruant,

But a new tearme, will you be my refuge?

Your refuge, why sir.

That I might fly to you, when all else faile me.

And you be good at flying, be my Plouer.

Nay take away the P.

Tut, then you cannot fly:

Ile warrant you. Ile borrow Cupids wings.

Masse then I feare me youle do strange things:

I pray you blame me not, if I suspect you,

Your owne confession simply doth detect you,

Nay and you be so great in Cupids bookes,

T'will make me Iealous. you can with your lookes

(I warrant you) enflame a womans heart,

And at your pleasure take loues golden dart,

And wound the brest of any vertous maide.

Would I were hence: good Faith I am affraid,

You can constraine one ere they be aware,

To run mad for your loue?

O this is rate.

Close with my daughters gentlemen? wel done,

Tis like your selues: nay lusty Angelo,

Let not my presence make you bauke your sport,

I will not breake a minute of discourse

Twixt you and one of your faire Mistresses.

One of my mistresses? why thinks your Lordship

I haue so many

Many? no Angelo.

I do not thinke th'ast many, some fourteene

I here thou hast, euen of our worthiest dames,

Of any note, in Millaine:

Nay good my Lord fourteene: it is not so.

By'th the Masse that ist, here are their names to shew

Fourteene, or fifteene t'one. Good Angelo.

You need not be ashamd of any of them,

They are gallants all.

Sbloud you are such a Lord.

Nay stay sweet Angelo, I am disposed

A little to be pleasant past my coustome,

He's gone? he's gone, I haue disgrast him shrewdly,

Daughters take heede of him, he's a wild youth,

Looke what he sayes to you beleeue him not,

He will sweare loue to euery one he sees.

Francisco, giue them councell, good Francisco,

I dare trust thee with both, but him with neither.

Your Lordship yet may trust both them with him.

Well goe your waies away, how now Christopher,

What newes with you?

I haue an humble suit to your good Lordship.

A suit Christopher? what suit I prithee?

I would craue pardon at your Lordships hands,

If it seeme vaine or simple in your sight.

Ile pardon all simplicity, Christopher,

What is thy suit?

Perhaps being now so old a batcheler,

shall seeme halfe vnwise, to bend my selfe

In strict affection to a poore yong maide.

What? is it touching loue Christopher?

Art thou dispost to marry, why tis well.

I, but your Lordship may imagine now

That I being steward of your honours house.

If I be maried once, will more regard

The maintenance of my wife and of my charge,

Then the due discharge of my place and office:

No, no, Christopher, I know thee honest.

Good faith my Lord, your honour may suspect it--

but——

Then I should wrong thee, thou hast euer been

Honest and true, and will be still I knowe.

I but this marriage alters many men:

And you may feare, it will do me my Lord,

But ere it do so? I will vndergoe

Ten thousand seuerall deaths.

I know it man.

Who wouldst thou haue I prithee?

Rachel de prie,

If your good Lordship, graunt me your consent.

Rachel de prie? what the poore beggers daughter?

Shees a right handsome maide, how poore soeuer,

And thou hast my consent, with all my hart.

I humbly thanke your honour. Ile now aske her

father.

Do so Christofero thou shalt do well.

Tis strange (she being so poore) he should affect her,

But this is more strange that my selfe should loue her.

I spide her, lately, at her fathers doore,

And if I did not see in her sweet face

Gentry and noblenesse, nere trust me more:

But this perswasion, fancie wrought in me,

That fancie being created with her lookes,

For where loue is he thinke his basest obiect

Gentle and noble: I am farre in loue,

And shall be forc'd to wrong my honest steward,

For I must sue, and seeke her for my selfe;

How much my duetie to my late dead wife,

And my owne deere renowne so ere it swaies,

Ile to her father straight. Loue hates delays.

O that's well sayd, lay them downe, come sirs.

Who plaies, fellow Iuniper, Sebastian, Balthasar:

Some body take them vp, come.

Ingle Valentine?

Not I sir, I professe it not.

Sebastian.

Balthasar.

Who? I?

My yong and simple friend, Paulo Ferneze,

Bound me with mighty solemne coniurations,

To be true to him, in his loue, to Rachel,

And to solicite his remembrance still,

In his enforced absence, much, I faith.

True to my friend in cases of affection?

In womens cases? what a iest it is?

How silly he is, that imagines it!

He is an asse that will keepe promise stricktly

In any thing that checkes his priuate pleasure;

Chiefly in loue. S'bloud am not I a man?

Haue I not eyes that are as free to looke?

And bloud to be enflam'd as well as his?

And when it is so, shall I not pursue

Mine owne loues longings, but preferre my friends?

I tis a good foole, do so, hang me then,

Because I swore, alas, who doo's not know,

That louers periuries are ridiculous?

Haue at thee Rachel: Ile go court her sure:

For now I know her father is abroad.

S'bloud see, he is here, ô what damn'd lucke is this?

This labour's lost, I must by no meanes see him.

Mischiefe and hell, what is this man a spirit,

Haunts he my houses ghost? still at my doore?

He has beene at my doore, he has beene in,

In my deere doore: pray God my gold be safe.

Gods pitty, heres another. Rachel, ho Rachel.

God saue you honest father.

Rachel, Gods light, come to me, Rachel, Rachel!

Now in Gods name what ayles he? this is strange!

He loues his daughter so, Ile lay my life,

That hee's afraid, hauing beene now abroad,

I come to seeke her loue vnlawfully.

Tis safe, tis safe, they haue not rob'd my treasure.

Let it not seeme offensiue to you sir.

Sir, Gods my life, sir, sir, call me sir.

Good father here me.

You are most welcome sir,

I meant almost; and would your worship speake?

Would you abase your selfe to speake to me?

Tis no abasing father: my intent

Is to do further honour to you sir

Then onely speake: which is to be your sonne.

My gold is in his nostrels, he has smelt it,

Breake breast, breake heart, fall on the earth my entrailes,

With this same bursting admiration!

He knowes my gold, he knowes of all my treasure,

How do you know sir? whereby do you guesse?

At what sir? what ist you meane?

I aske, an't please your Gentle worship, how you

know?

I meane, how I should make your worship know

That I haue nothing——

To giue with my poore daughter? I haue nothing:

The very aire, bounteous to euery man,

Is scant to me, sir.

I do thinke good father, you are but poore,

He thinkes so, harke, but thinke so:

He thinkes not so, he knowes of all my treasure.

Poore man he is so ouerioyed to heare

His daughter may be past his hopes bestowed,

That betwixt feare and hope (if I meane simply)

He is thus passionate.

Yet all is safe within, is none without?

No body breake my walles?

What say you father, shall I haue your daughter?

I haue no dowry to bestow vpon her.

I do expect none, father.

That is well.

Then I beseech your worship make no question

Of that you wish, tis too much fauour to me.

Ile leaue him now to giue his passions breath,

Which being setled, I will fetch his daughter:

I shall but moue too much, to speake now to him.

So, hee's gone, would all were dead and gone,

That I might liue with my deere gold alone.

Here is the poore old man.

Out of my soule another, comes he hither?

Be not dismaid old man, I come to cheere you.

To me by heauen,

Turne ribs to brasse, turne voice into a trumpet,

To rattle out the battels of my thoughts,

One comes to hold me talke, while th'other robbes me.

He has forgot me sure: what should this meane?

He feares authority, and my want of wife

Will take his daughter from him to defame her:

He that hath naught on earth but one poore daughter,

May take this extasie of care to keepe her.

And yet tis safe: they meane not to vse force,

But fawning comming. I shall easly know

By his next question, if he thinke me rich,

Whom see I? my good Lord?

Stand vp good father, I call thee not father for thy

age,

But that I gladly wish to be thy sonne,

In honoured marriage with thy beauteous daughter.

O, so, so, so, so, so, this is for gold,

Now it is sure, this is my daughters neatnesse,

Makes them beleeue me rich. No, my good Lord,

Ile tell you all; how my poore haplesse daughter

Got that attire she weares from top to toe.

Why father, this is nothing.

O yes, good my Lord.

Indeed it is not.

Nay sweet Lord pardon me? do not dissemble,

Heare your poore beads-man speake; tis requisite

That I (so huge a beggar) make account

Of things that passe my calling: she was borne

T' enioy nothing vnderneath the sonne:

But that, if she had more then other beggars

She should be enuied: I will tell you then

How she had all she weares, her warme shooes (God wot)

A kind maide gaue her, seeing her go barefoot

In a cold frosty morning; God requite her;

Her homely stockings

Father, Ile heare no more, thou mou'st too much

With thy too curious answere for thy daughter,

That doth deserue a thousand times as much,

Ile be thy Sonne in law, and she shall weare

Th'attire of Countesses.

O good my Lord,

Mock not the poore, remembers not your Lordship,

That pouerty is the precious gift of God.

As well as riches, tread vpon me, rather

Then mocke my poorenes.

Rise I say:

When I mocke poorenes, then heauens make me poore.

See heres the Count Ferneze, I will tell him

The haplesse accident of his braue sonne,

That hee may seeke the sooner to redeeme him,

God saue your Lordship.

You are right welcome sir.

I would I brought such newes as might deserue it.

What, bring you me ill newes?

Tis ill my Lord,

Yet such as vsuall chance of warre affoords,

And for which all men are prepar'd that vse it,

And those that vse it not, but in their friends,

Or in their children.

Ill newes of my sonne?

My deere and onely sonne, Ile lay my soule,

Ay me accurs'd, thought of his death doth wound me,

And the report of it will kill me quite.

Tis not so ill my Lord.

How then?

Hee's taken prisoner, and that's all.

That's enough, enough,

I set my thoughts on loue, on seruile loue,

Forget my vertuous wife, feele not the dangers,

The bands and wounds of mine owne flesh and bloud,

And therein am a mad man: therein plagu'd,

With the most just affliction vnder heauen.

Is Maximilian taken prisoner to?

My good my Lord, he is return'd with prisoners.

Ist possible, can Maximilian?

Returne, and view my face without my sonne,

For whom he swore such care as for himselfe?

My Lord no care can change the euents of war.

O! in what tempests do my fortunes saile,

Still wrackt with winds more foule and contrary,

Then any northen guest, or Southerne flawe?

That euer yet inforc't the sea to gape,

And swallow the poore Marchants traffique vp?

First in Vieenza, lost I my first sonne;

Next here in Millaine my most deere lou'd Lady:

And now my Paulo, prisoner to the French,

Which last being printed with my other griefes,

Doth make so huge a volume, that my brest

Cannot containe them. But this is my loue:

I must make loue to Rachel, heauen hath throwne,

This vengeance on me most deseruedly:

Were it for nought but wronging of my steward.

My Lord since onely mony may redresse

The worst of this misfortune, be not griued,

Prepare his ransome and your noble sonne

Shall greete your cheered eyes, with the more honour.

I will prepare his ransome: gratious heauen

Grant his imprisonment may be his worst,

Honored and souldier-like imprisonment,

And that he be not manacled and made

A drudge to his proude foe. And here I vow,

Neuer to dreame of seeme-les amorous toyes,

Nor aime at other ioy on earth,

But the fruition of my onely sonne.

He's gone: I knew it; this is our hot louer,

I will beleeue them! I! they may come in

Like simple woers, and be arrant theeues,

And I not know them! tis not to be told,

What seruile villanies, men will do for gold,

O it began to haue a huge strong smell,

Which lying so long together in a place;

Ile giue it vent, it shall ha shift inough,

And if the diuell, that enuies all goodnesse,

Haue told them of my gold, and where I kept it,

Ile set his burning nose once more a worke,

To smell where I remou'd it, here it is:

Ile hide and couer it with this horse-dung:

Who will suppose that such a precious nest[unclear]

Is crownd with such a dunghill excrement?

In my deere life, sleepe sweetly my deere child.

”Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten,

”And thats enough. Rot all hands that come neere thee

Except mine owne. Burne out all eyes that see thee,

Except mine owne. All thoughts of thee be poyson

To their enamor'd harts, except mine owne,

Ile take no leaue, sweet Prince great Emperour,

But see thee euery minute, King of Kings,

Ile not be rude to thee, and turne my backe,

In going from thee, but go backward out:

With my face toward thee, with humble curtesies,

None is within. None ouerlookes my wall.

To haue gold, and to haue it safe, is all.

Wee know it signior Maximilian,

The fame of al your actions sounds nought else,

But perfect honour from her swelling cheeks.

Marry with my Lords leaue here I say signior,

This free & ample offer you haue made,

Agrees well with your honour, but not ours:

For I thinke not but Chamount is as well borne

As is Ferneze, then if I mistake not,

He scornes to haue his worth so vnderprised,

That it should neede an adiunct, in exchange,

Of any equall fortune. Noble Signior?

I am a souldier, and I loue Chamount,

Ere I would bruse his estimation,

With the least ruine of mine owne respect,

In this vild kind, these legs should rot with irons,

This body pine in prison, till the flesh

Dropt from my bones in flakes, like withered leaues,

In heart of Autumne, from a stubborne Oke.

I but your Lordship knowes not what hard fate

Might haue pursued vs, therefore howsoere

The changing of our names was necessary

And we must now be carefull to maintaine

This error strongly, which our owne deuise,

Hath thrust into their ignorant conceits,

For should we (on the taste of this good fortune)

Appeare our selues, t'would both create in them

A kinde of iealousie, and perchaunce inuert

Those honourable courses they intend.

True my deere Gasper: but this hang by here,

Will (at one time or other) on my soule

Discouer vs: A secret in his mouth

Is like a wild bird put into a cage,

Whose doore no sooner opens, but tis out.

But sirra, if I may but know

Thou vtterst it

Vtteria? vat Mounsieur?

That he is Gasper, and I true Chamount.

O pardone moy, fore my tongue shall put out de secreta,

Shall breede de cankra in my mouth.

Speake not so loud Pacue.

Peace, here comes Maximilian.

O belike that's the Count Ferneze, that old man.

Are those his daughters, trow?

I sure, I thinke they are.

Fore God the taller is a gallant Lady.

So are they both beleeue me.

O that may be, for when I lost my sonne,

This was but yong it seemes.

Faith had Camillo liued,

He had beene much about his yeares, my Lord.

He had indeed, well, speake no more of him.

Honor'd Chamont reach me your valiant hand,

I could haue wisht some happier accident

Had made the way vnto this mutuall knowledge,

Which either of vs now must take of other,

But sure it is the pleasure of our fates,

That we should thus be wrack't on Fortunes wheele,

Let vs prepare with steeled patience

To tread on torment, and with mindes confirm'd

Welcome the worst of enuy.

Why how now sister in a motley muse?

Go to, thers somewhat in the wind, I see.

Faith this browne study suites not with your blacke,

Your habit and your thoughts are of two colours.

A mothelry conceite, ô blind excuse,

Blinder then loue himselfe. Well sister, well.

Cupid hath tane his stand in both your eyes, The case is al-

terd.

And what of that?

Nay nothing but a Saint.

Another Bridget, one that for a face

Would put downe Vesta, in whose lookes doth swim,

The very sweetest creame of modesty.

You to turne tippet? fie, fie, will you giue

A packing penny to Virginity.

I thought youl'd dwell so long in Cypres Ile,

You'd worship Maddam Venus at the length;

But come, the strongest fall, and why not you?

Nay, do not frowne.

Go. go, you foole. Adiew.

Well I may iest, or so: but Cupid knowes

My taking is as bad, or worse then hers.

O Mounsieur Gasper? if thou bee'st a man,

Be not affraid to court me, do but speake,

Challenge thy right and weare it: for I sweare

Till thou arriud'st, nere came affection here.

Sweet Iasper I am sorry we must part,

But strong necessity enforceth it.

Let not the time seeme long vnto my friend,

Till my returne for by our loue I sweare

(The sacred spheare wherein our soules are knit)

I will endeauour to effect this busines

With all industrious care and happy speed.

My Lord these circumstances would come well,

To one lesse capable of your desert

Then I: in whom your mirrit is confirmed

With such authenticall and grounded proues.

Well I will vse no more. Gasper adiew.

Farewell my honored Lord.

Commend me to the Lady, my good Gasper.

I had remembred that had not you vrgd it.

Once more adiew sweet Gasper.

My good Lord.

Thy vertues are more precious then thy name,

Kind gentleman I would not sell thy loue,

For all the earthly obiects that mine eyes,

Haue euer tasted, sure thou art nobly borne,

How euer fortune hath obscurd thy birth:

For natiue honour sparkles in thine eyes,

How may I blesse the time where in Chamont

My honored father did surprise vicenza,

Where this my friend (knowen by no name) was found,

Being then a child and scarce of power to speake,

To whom my father gaue this name of Gasper,

And as his owne respected him to death,

Since when wee two haue shard our mutuall fortunes,

With equall spirits, and but deathes rude hand,

No violence shall dissolue this sacred band.

Nay I prithee Rachel, I come to comfort thee,

Be not so sad.

O signior Angelo,

No comfort but his presence can remoue,

This sadnesse from my heart.

Nay then y'are fond,

And want that strength of iudgement and election,

That should be attendent on your yeares and forme,

Will you, because your Lord is taken prisoner,

Blubber and weepe and keepe a peeuish stirre,

As though you would turne turtle with the newes,

Come, come, be wise. Sblood say your Lord should die:

And you goe marre your face as you begin,

What would you doe trow? who would care for you;

But this it is, when nature will bestow

Her gifts on such as know not how to vse them,

You shall haue some that had they but one quarter

Of your faire beauty? they would make it shew

A little otherwise then you do this,

Or they would see the painter twice an hower,

And I commend them I, that can vse art,

With such iudiciall practise.

You talke iedly,

If this be your best comfort keepe it still,

My sences cannot feede on such sower cates.

And why sweet heart.

Nay leaue good signior.

Come I haue sweeter vyands yet in store.

Where are they? Rachel? theeues, theeues?

Stay villaine slaue: Rachel? vntye my dog.

Nay theife thou canst not scape.

Heart, thou art some what eas'd? halfe of my feare

Hath tane his leaue of my, the other halfe

Still keepes possession in dispight of hope,

Vntill these amorous eyes, court my faire gold:

Deare I come to thee: friend, why art not gone?

Auoid my soules vexation, Sathan hence?

Why doest thou stare on me, why doest thou stay?

Why por'st thou on the ground with theeuish eyes?

What see'st thou there, thou curre? what gap'st thou at?

Hence from my house, Rachel, send garlick forth.

I am gone sir, I am gone, for Gods sake stay.

Pack, and thanke God thou scap'st so well away.

If I scape this tree, destinies, I defie you.

I cannot see by any Characters

Writ on this earth, that any fellon foote

Hath tane acquaintance of this hallowed ground.

None sees me: knees do homage to your Lord.

Tis safe, tis safe, it lyes and sleepes so soundly,

Twould do one good to looke on't. If this blisse

Be giuen to any man that hath much gold,

Iustly to say tis safe, I say tis safe.

O what a heauenly round these two words dance

Within me and without me: First I thinke hem,

And then I speake hem, then I watch their sound,

And drinke it greedily with both mine eares,

Then thinke, then speake, then drinke their sound againe,

And racket round about this bodies court.

These two sweet words: tis safe: stay I will feed

My other sences, ô how sweet it smels.

I mar'le he smels not Onion, being so neere it.

Downe to thy graue againe, thou beauteous Ghost,

Angels men say, are spirits: Spirits be

Inuisible, bright angels are you so?

Be you inuisible to euery eye.

Saue onely these: Sleepe, Ile not breake your rest,

Though you breake mine: Deare Saints adiew, adiew:

My feete part from you, but my soule dwels with you.

Nay but sweet Count.

Away, Ile heare no more,

Neuer was man so palpably abusd,

My sonne so basely marted; and my selfe

Am made the subiect of your mirth and scorne.

Count Ferneze you tread to hard vpon my patience,

Do not persist I aduise your Lordship.

I will persist, and vnto thee I speake.

Thou Maximilian thou hast iniur'd me.

Before the Lord:

Sweet signior.

O my father.

Lady let your father thank your beauty.

By gar me shall be hang for tella dis same,

Me tella madamoyselle, she tell her fadera.

The true Chamount set free, and one left here

Of no descent, clad barely in his name.

O pardone moy mounsieur,

Come leaue your pardons, and directly say.

What villaine is the same that hath vsurpt,

The honor'd name and person of Chamount:

Me canno tell, par ma foy Mounsieur.

My honorable Lord.

Tut tut, be silent.

By heauen I will not, I will stop mine eares,

My sences loath the Sauiour of thy breath.

Tis poyson to me, I say I will not heare.

What shall I know, tis you haue iniurd me,

What will you make? make me acknowledge it.

Fetch forth that Gasper, that lewd counterfeit.

Ile make him to your face approue your wrongs.

Come on false substance, shadow to Chamont:

Had you none else to worke vpon but me,

Was I your fittest proiect? well confesse,

What you intended by this secret plot.

And by whose policy it was contriu'd,

Speake truth, and be intreated courteously,

But double with me, and resolue to proue

The extremest rigor that I can inflict.

My honor'd Lord, heare me with patience,

Nor hope of fauour, not the feare of torment,

Shall sway my tongue, from vttring of a truth.

Tis well, proceed then.

The morne before this battell did begin.

Wherein my Lord Chamount and I were tane,

We vow'd one mutuall fortune, good or bad,

That day should be imbraced of vs both,

And vrging that might worst succeede our vow,

We there concluded to exchange our names.

Then Maximilian tooke you for Chamount.

True noble Lord.

Tis false, ignoble wretch,

Twas but a complot to betray my sonne.

Count, thou lyest in thy bosome, Count[unclear]

Lye?

Nay I beseech you honor'd gentlemen,

Let not the vntimely ruine of your loue,

Follow these sleight occurents; be assured

Chamounts returne will heale these wounds againe,

And breake the points of your too piercing thoughts.

Returne? I when? when will Chamount returne?

Heele come to fetch you, will he? I tis like,

Youl'd haue me thinke so, that's your policy.

No, no, yong gallant, your deuice is stale,

You cannot feed me with so vaine a hope.

My Lord, I feede you not with a vaine hope,

I know assuredly he will returne,

And bring your noble sonne along with him.

I, I dare pawne my soule he will returne.

O impudent dirision? open scorne?

Intollerable wrong? is't not inough?

That you haue plaid vpon me all this while;

But still to mocke me, still to iest at me?

Fellowes, away with him, thou ill-bred slaue,

That sets no difference twixt a noble spirit,

And thy owne slauish humour, do not thinke

But ile take worthy vengeance on thee, wretch?

Alas, these threats are idle, like the wind,

And breed no terror in a guiltlesse mind.

Nay, thou shalt want no torture, so resolue, bring

him away.

Welcome the worst, I suffer for a friend,

Your tortures will, my loue shall neuer end.

Alas poore gentleman, my fathers rage

Is too extreame, too sterne and violent[unclear]

O that I knew with all my strongest powers,

How to remoue it from thy patient breast,

But that I cannot, yet my willing heart,

Shall minister in spight of tyranny

To thy misfortune, something there is in him,

That doth enforce this strange affection,

With more then common rapture in my breast:

For being but Gasper, he is still as deare

To me, as when he did Chamount appeare.

Ile follow Signior, ô sweet Queene of loue!

Soueraigne of all my thoughts, and thou faire fortune,

Who (more to honour my affections)

Hast thus translated Gasper to Chamount.

Let both your flames now burne in one bright speare;

And giue true light to my aspiring hopes,

Hasten Chamounts returne, let him affect me,

Though father, friends, and all the world reiect me.

Sigh for a woman, would I fould mine armes,

Raue in my sleepe, talke idly being awake,

Pine and looke pale, make loue-walkes in the night,

To steale cold comfort from a day-starres eyes.

Kit, thou art a foole, wilt thou be wise? then lad

Renounce this boy-gods nice idolatry,

Stand not on complement, and wooing trickes,

Thou louest old Iaques daughter, doest thou?

Loue her?

Come, come, I know't, be rul'd and shees thine owne,

Thou't say her father Iaques, the old begger,

Hath pawnd his word to thee, that none but thou,

Shalt be his sonne in law.

He has.

He has? wilt thou beleeue him, and be made a kooke,

To waite on such an antique wethercocke;

Why he is more inconstant then the sea,

His thoughts, Cameleon-like, change euery minute:

No Kit, worke soundly, steale the wench away,

Wed her, and bed her, and when that is done,

Then say to Iaques,shall I be your sonne?

But come to our deuise, where is this gold?

Heere Signior Angelo.

Bestow it, bid thy hands shed golden drops,

Let these bald french crownes be vncouered,

In open sight, to do obeysance

To Iaques staring eyes when he steps forth,

The needy beggar will be glad of gold.

So, now keepe thou aloofe, and as he treades

This guilded path, stretch out his ambling hopes,

With scattring more & more, & as thou go'st, cry Iaques, Iaques

Tush, let me alone.

First ile play the ghost, Ile cal him out, Kit keep aloofe.

But Signior Angelo. Where wil your selfe and Rachel

stay for me, after the iest is ended?

Masse, that's true, at the old Priory behinde S. Foyes.

Agreed, no better place, ile meete you there.

Do good foole, do, but ile not meet you there.

Now to this geere, Iaques, Iaques, what Iaques?

Who cals? whose there?

Who cals?

Steward, he comes, he comes Iaques.

What voice is this? no body here, was I not cald? I was.

And one cride Iaques with a hollow voyce,

I was deceiu'd, no I was not deceiu'd,

See see, it was an Angell cald me forth,

Gold, gold, man, making gold, another starre,

Drop they from heauen, no, no, my house I hope

Is haunted with a Fairy. My deere Lar,

My houshold God, My Fairy on my knees.

Iaques.

My Lar doth call me, ô sweet voyce.

Musicall as the spheares, see, see, more gold.

Iaques.

Iaques.

To a fooles paradice that path will bring

Thee and thy houshold Lar.

O Angelo.

O me no oo's, but heare, my Lord your loue,

Paulo Ferneze is returnd from warre,

Lingers at Pont Valeria, and from thence

By post at midnight last, I was coniur'd

To man you thither, stand not on replies,

A horse is sadled for you, will you go,

And I am for you, if you will stay, why so.

O Angelo, each minute is a day till my Ferneze come,

come weele away sir.

Sweet soule I guesse thy meaning by thy lookes,

At pont Valerio thou thy loue shalt see,

But not Ferneze, Steward fare you well.

O in what golden circle haue I dan'st?

Millaine these od'rous and enfloured fields

Are none of thine, no heres Elizium,

Heere blessed ghosts do walke, this is the Court

And glorious palace where the God of gold

Shines like the sonne, of sparkling maiesty;

O faire fethered, my red-brested birds,

Come flye with me, ile bring you to a quier,

Whose consort being sweetned with your sound:

The musique will be fuller, and each hower

These eares shall banquet with your harmony ô, ô, ô,

At the old priorie, behind Saint Foyes,

That was the place of our appointment sure:

I hope he will not make me loose my gold,

And mock me to, perhaps they are within: Ile knock.

O God, the case is alterd.

Rachel?Angelo? Signior Angelo?

Angels? I where? mine Angels? wher's my gold?

Why Rachel? O thou theeuish Canibal,

Thou eatest my flesh in stealing of my gold.

What gold?

What gold? Rachel call help, come forth,

Ile rip thine entrailes, but ile haue my gold:

Rachel why comes thou not? I am vndone,

Ay me she speakes not, thou hast slaine my child.

What is the man possest trow? this is strange,

Rachel I see is gone with Angelo:

Well ile once againe vnto the priory,

And see if I can meete them.

Tis too true,

Th'ast made away my child, how hast my gold:

O what Hienna cald me out of dores,

The theife is gone: my gold's gone, Rachels gone,

Al's gone? saue I that spend my cries in vaine,

But ile hence too, and die or end this paine.